Wet Paint Road


we had no plans and began to drive
into the small town that had tried to hide
from a paper map, hung on the wall
it would seem to be fields that only stretch on
but in the car with him, driving with our eyes closed,
each road was an opportunity with memories enclosed.

sometimes he’d point out things to me
things like fields, things like trees.
things like a house holding a silent pose.
or a trailhead that nobody knows where it goes.

it wasn’t until that the words left his lips
that the things that sat outside were harder to miss.
the emptiness turned into life.
his stories were music that made it dance in the night.
the sides of the road turned into wet paint.
the colors were no longer so faint.

his words a brush
and we were in no rush.
while we drove around trees, i dove into his life.
my prediction of him was far from right.

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